


Washed Away by Hot Tea

by skywriter123



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Cutting, Hurt/Comfort, Martin Whump, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 04:55:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skywriter123/pseuds/skywriter123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin goes through a lot and isn't dealing with it the right way. Douglas finds out and tries to help.<br/>Trigger warning for self-harm</p>
            </blockquote>





	Washed Away by Hot Tea

**Author's Note:**

> I've debated whether to post this one or not, but I decided to. On Martin's cutting... well, it's a bit personal to myself. If you don't like or don't think you can handle it, please don't read. Otherwise, comments, and the like are welcomed. Enjoy.

Martin wiped more sweat from his brow. Abu Dhabi was blistering hot and his captain’s uniform was locking in the heat. Douglas in the seat next door stripped off his jacket.  
“Aren’t you going to take off your jacket, sir?” Douglas asked, making sure to overemphasize “sir”.  
“What? Oh, ah,” A bead of sweat having nothing to do with the extreme heat appeared and trickled down Martin’s temple. “Right, uh, yeah,” Martin said nervously, glancing down at his left wrist, the one he favored when it all became too much and he needed release. The last thing he wanted was for Douglas to have another thing to hold against him. He could almost hear him now; _The Supreme Commander cuts? Captains don’t cut. _Martin shuddered and jerked back into focus. “Excuse me.” Martin stood quickly and rushed to the bathroom, firmly locking the door behind him.__  
“What’s wrong with Skipper?” Arthur asked, poking his head into the flight deck.  
“Haven’t the faintest,” Douglas said loftily. “Is Carolyn ready for take-off?”  
After agreeing that take-off would be immediate, Douglas banged on the door of the bathroom and Martin jumped, dropping the concealer he was applying to his latest cuts. He swore under his breath as the makeup spilled all over the linoleum floor.  
“Just a second!” He called, trying desperately to control his voice and failing dismally. He quickly finished his shabby job of concealing the scars and tried to pick up the makeup.  
“Hang on, hang on, sorry!” He said and tried to sweep it up with a damp paper towel. It smeared and Martin swore again.  
“Hang on, sorry, hang on, just a sec, sorry!” Martin scrubbed at the smears and tossed the makeup stained tissues into the bin. “Hang on!” He said again, standing up and hitting his head. “Oh, fuck!”  
“Language, Martin,” Douglas teased half-heartedly. Clearly something was wrong with Martin. The gangly captain normally apologized, but not to this extent. And… did Martin sound nervous?  
“Sorry! I’m sorry!” Martin called instinctively. “S-sorry, sorry!” He fumbled with the doorknob, and let himself out, jacket bundled up under his arm.  
“Skip, are you alright? You look like you’re going to pass out,” Arthur said, taking in Martin’s pale face.  
“Oh, it’s just the heat,” Martin said quickly, discreetly glancing at his wrists, trying to make sure each cut was covered. It was the slightest of glances, but, ever observant, Douglas caught his line of sight and raised an eyebrow.  
“Skip, what’s that on your jacket?” Arthur asked. Martin looked down at the smears of makeup in horror.  
“N-nothing!” He quickly strode to his flight bag, shoving the offending item inside and away from the prying eyes of Douglas and Arthur.  
“Sir seems awfully jumpy today,” Douglas said from behind him.  
“What? Me? Jumpy?” Martin gave a nervous laugh. “No, I’m not jumpy, why would I be jumpy?” He stood from his bag and tripped over one of the straps, propelling himself forward. He had hardly enough time to give a sharp yelp before he was nearly flat on his face. Luckily, Douglas caught him, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder and another on his thin chest.  
Once he regained balance, Martin jerked out of Douglas’ grip.  
“Martin-“ Douglas began, but Martin cut him off. “Yeah, yeah, I know, same old idiot Martin. Save it, Douglas, I hear it enough already.”  
“I was going to ask if you were alright, but clearly sir is.”  
“Oh,” Martin blushed. “Sorry for snapping, Douglas. Thanks, I’m fine.” Douglas nodded but didn’t seem convinced. “When’s take off?”  
“Now. You were going to operate back?”  
“Oh, um, yes.”

Throughout the flight Douglas kept sneaking glances at Martin, seeing the way the younger pilot glanced nervously from his wrists to him every so often. He looked at the discolored skin of Martin’s wrists and, with a growing pit in his stomach, spotted the edges of scars that could only be from one thing.  
Oh, Martin…  
Once they landed Martin immediately left before Douglas had a chance to get a word in. Fearing the worst, Douglas drove his Lexus to the student home Martin resided in, terrified of what he might find. Images of an unconscious Martin on the floor, wrists bloodied flashed in his mind as he drove through the pelting rain.  
He reached the student home and parked his Lexus, hurrying up the front steps before pausing. He knocked awkwardly and the door was answered not by Martin, but by a girl with black curls.  
“Yeah?” She asked in an annoyed tone.  
“I’m looking for Martin Crieff?”  
“He’s in the top room, all the way up. The attic, you can’t miss it.” She stepped aside to let him through and, after glancing at the various college students passed out everywhere with textbooks, pens, and red solo cups in their hands, he hurried up the flights of stairs and one ladder.  
Taking a moment to brace himself for whatever was behind Martin’s door, he knocked. After a long minute, Martin answered, leaning heavily against the doorframe.  
“D-Douglas?” He said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”  
“I-“ Douglas tried to think of an excuse. “I wanted to… check up on you. You seemed off today.”  
“I-I’m fine. You didn’t need to come all the way here.” Martin shifted slightly and Douglas spotted a rather tiny room behind him with a window open to the rain, though none blew in.  
“It was nothing. Listen, Martin,” Martin’s face grew worried at Douglas’ caring tone. “I…” Douglas didn’t know how to start. He didn’t want to just barrel into the conversation. He was saved for the moment when Martin stepped out of the doorway.  
“Tea?” Martin offered, letting Douglas step in.  
“That’d be great, thanks.”  
As Martin busied in the “kitchen” (a table with an electric kettle, cheap microwave and a mini fridge nearby) Douglas tried to think of a way to bring his assumptions up. Once they were both seated at the table with a cup of tea in hand, Douglas spoke.  
“Martin, you seemed to be in an awful hurry once we landed today,” he hoped his tone was casual. Martin paused, cup halfway to his lips.  
“I… One of the kids texted me, he’d left his key. I had to go unlock the door.”  
“Oh. You seemed to be nervous about something…” Martin laughed that same, short, unnatural nervous laugh from before.  
“No, no, I’m fine.”  
“Dammit Martin, I give up!” Douglas spat out, exasperated. “I know you are hurting yourself!” Dammit that wasn’t supposed to come out!  
“What?!” Martin’s voice rose an octave or two easily. “NO! I’m not!”  
“Martin, I saw.”  
“NO! No! You didn’t see anything!” Martin spilled his tea in his apparent anger, the scalding liquid pouring over his left wrist. “GOD DAMMIT!” He cried, clutching it to his chest in pain.  
“Martin, let me see,” Douglas said, standing up and going to Martin’s side.  
“It’s fine!” Martin claimed through gritted teeth.  
“It’s not nothing, let me see,” Douglas carefully got hold of the injured wrist and extended the arm towards him. The skin was an angry red and streams of makeup and tea rolled down the irritated flesh, revealing the layer of cuts beneath.  
“Oh, Martin,” Douglas breathed, delicately running his thumb along the area.  
“Do you have a cool compress or anything frozen?” He asked. Martin shook his head.  
“Alright, I will be right back. I’m getting some snow.”  
“What?! No, I’m fine!”  
“Martin, it’s a serious burn. You could have to go to the hospital.”  
“No!”  
“I’m getting the snow. Stay there.”  
Douglas hurried down the steps with a shirt he’d scooped off Martin’s floor, mistaking it for a rag. Oh well, it’d have to do.  
He rushed into the house’s yard, finding a miniscule pile of snow on the ground and scooped a sizeable chunk into the shirt before going back in.  
“Burn,” he called to the confused students, making his way back up. Luckily, Martin was still at the table, but on his hands and knees, trying to mop up the tea.  
“Martin, I’ll get that, sit! Put this on the burn!” Martin looked up, a few errant tears blinking out of his eyes and running down his pale face.  
“It’s alright, just put this on it and sit.” Douglas carefully placed a hand on Martin’s shoulder, pressing him into a seat on the couch several feet away and placing the makeshift icepack in his hand before returning to the kitchen area and picking up the discarded towel Martin had been using.  
When he returned, Martin was looking straight ahead at nothing, the snow pressed against his arm. He sat down next to Martin on the sofa and rubbed a hand across his back soothingly.  
“It’s okay, Martin. Does your arm still hurt?”  
“N-not really,”  
“Can I see?” Martin seemed to weight his options before moving the pack and revealing the arm. The red was down considerably and luckily (for once) the burn didn’t seem too bad.  
“It seems okay… Now, Martin. Why are you doing this to yourself?” Martin stayed quiet with his head down, but Douglas saw a few tears drip onto Martin’s arm.  
“Martin,” he said quietly. Martin looked up, lips trembling, tears falling from his eyes. “it’s fine… I’m here,” Douglas was good at comforting his daughter when she was upset and Martin counted to him as both friend and maybe (if he was willing to admit it) a son.  
“It’s just… it’s just too much all the time! Everything! Work, this bloody place, watching everyone go but being stuck! I’m not a proper pilot, Douglas!” Martin said, voice breaking. “I work for free! I drive a van for a living and then go play pretend pilot!”  
“Martin, you are a real pilot, I assure you. A captain, even.”  
“You should be captain! I’m captain because I work for free! I don’t deserve to be captain, I’m just a clumsy fuck-up who shoots too big like everyone’s always told me!” Then Martin began to sob. Big, wracking sobs that shook the small frame of the skinny man as he rested his head in his hands, tears squeezing out from between his fingers.  
Douglas ran his hand in little circles over Martin’s spine and, in the heat of the moment, Martin gave a bigger sob and dove into Douglas’ arms, shaking. He rested his head on Douglas’ chest, tears soaking through Douglas’ shirt. Douglas was overwhelmed for a second before pulling Martin closer, muffling the sobs in his chest.  
After a long while, Martin’s sobs receded and to Douglas’ surprise, Martin gave a small snore. The weight of Martin’s biggest secret being lifted off his shoulders gave such relief that Martin fell straight into a calm sleep, being comforted by the warmth of Douglas. Sighing, Douglas ran his hand through Martin’s hair and let the man, boy really, sleep, unwilling to wake him from what looked like a peaceful slumber. They’d figure it out in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked. And if any of you readers out there cut yourselves... I don't know I was going to try to be encouraging but I can't think of what to say. If you want someone to talk or rant to, I'm here and also my tumblr's skywriter98.tumblr.com  
> send me a message anon or not and I'll gladly talk  
> Stay strong, guys


End file.
